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      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          • January 9, 2012 10:42 pm
            I’m tired of writing stories for humans. Its become too precious. From this day forward I will only write for wolves. I shall start with children’s stories for little wolf cubs. When you are a little cub life is tough. Playing, sleeping, and eating Rolling around in the sun soaked meadow but fear not little friend… For black teeth gleem and darkness is your true heart You are the devourer You stalk your god in hunger Death is your true mother You suckle blood from her teat You are alone You are a mountain You are the best/worst Jim Morrison poem ever Devour your fear and fall crazily in love with the killer so happily ever-after

            I’m tired of writing stories for humans. Its become too precious. From this day forward I will only write for wolves. I shall start with children’s stories for little wolf cubs.

            When you are a little cub

            life is tough.

            Playing, sleeping, and eating

            Rolling around in the sun soaked meadow

            but fear not little friend…


            For black teeth gleem

            and darkness is your true heart

            You are the devourer

            You stalk your god in hunger

            Death is your true mother

            You suckle blood from her teat


            You are alone

            You are a mountain

            You are the best/worst Jim Morrison poem ever

            Devour your fear

            and fall crazily in love

            with the killer

            so happily ever-after

            203 notes Filed under:  prose, poetry, Bikini Kill, the killer is you,.
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